


Our sad, gooey hearts

by secretagentloverman



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4467308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretagentloverman/pseuds/secretagentloverman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think nothing special of him, at first. It really would’ve been easier if it stayed that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing against Seinfeld

You meet him on the first day of production. Just a quick exchange of names and _hi, how are ya, nice to meet you’s_ and off he goes to wardrobe. It goes by like a blur, like a lot of things lately it seems. 

A week ago, you were sitting in your parents’ kitchen eating a bowl of soggy Cheerios and listening to your mother complain about the fact that the only things her daughter has to her name are a high school diploma and a Bed-Stuy apartment the size of a coat closet.

Now you’re in Berlin, about to be in a feature-length independent film, playing a role that you were positive you were never ever going to get. You were in the same audition as _Jennifer Lawrence_ , for god’s sake. 

A part of you really wants to run back to your shitty apartment and hide under the covers forever, but a larger part is just so damn happy it could puke.

So it was not love at first sight. It wasn’t anything at all. He was just another guy in the long list of beautiful, talented people you’re going to be working with.

You think nothing special of it, nothing special of him, and for the sake of everyone involved, it really would’ve been easier if it stayed that way.

—

But the universe has a way of being cruel and it turns out your characters spend a lot of time in bed together. It only makes sense that your first actual conversation takes place on a twin-sized bed, both of you half-naked, with large, hot lights and thirty other people judging and glaring at you.

It goes like this:

“Uh. Ow.”

“What.”

“Your elbow. It’s kind of in my ribs.”

“Shit, sorry,” he readjusts.

“That’s ok, this isn't exactly my first time at the rodeo.”

He looks at you and his eyes are laughing, “That so?”

You nod like you're very serious as he maneuvers his way around so he’s kneeling between your legs. There really isn’t much room so he can’t help but knee and touch you in a few select places. He keeps saying sorry and it’s really awkward and funny and you’re laughing but also marveling at how this is now your life.

Then he says, “I'm sorry, I should've bought you dinner first.”

“Hey, if we survive this, it won't be too late.”

"There's hope for us yet." He lowers himself on his elbows so he's close enough that your eyes can't focus on his face. Then he says, like a solemn vow, "I promise, I will buy you a proper meal if it's the last thing I do."

You hear the director call 'action' just as Sebastian says, "I am a gentleman, after all," and leans down to kiss you.

—

You don't have dinner together. Not yet, anyway. Instead you see each other two mornings after, at the coffee shop across the street from where you're both staying. The apartment has seven floors; you live on the 6th and he lives on the 5th. 6C and 5B. 

You share a huge cranberry chocolate scone and each have your own drink — his an almond milk white mocha and yours a large coffee with two sugars. 

You find out that he grew up obsessed with Legos and Seinfeld. You agree about the Legos, but you've never seen the appeal of  _Seinfeld_ , so you call it a boring show about white people who just complain a lot and eat pickles. 

"I can't believe you just said that," he seems genuinely offended by this.

"Sorry?" you shrug, not sorry at all.

"I cannot believe you just said that.  _Seinfeld_  is, perhaps, the most quintessential American sitcom of the 1990s.” He says this completely and utterly serious, with sharp hand movements punctuating each word.

"Ok, I cannot believe you just said  _that_."

"What?" He says, confused and scandalized.

"You're kidding me, right?" You give him a look. He doesn't budge. "Okay, counterpoint:  _Full House_ , _Family Matters_ , _Fresh Prince_. Hell, even _A Different World_."

"You have no fucking clue what you're talking about," he pouts.

"Are you kidding me?" Now it's your turn to be scandalized. “ _Moesha_! _Friends_! _Boy Meets World_! Need I go on?”

“Spare me.”

“Wow. So this is what happens when you grow up in Jersey.”

“Oh my god. I did _not_ grow up in Jersey.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever quaint European lifestyle you were born in then.”

The conversation devolves a little more after that. Then you both discover you have mutual undying love for  _Freaks and Geeks_ and Pink Floyd and both spent your teenage years singing along to "Baba O'Riley" and watching _Taxi Driver_ on repeat. 

All of a sudden, he asks, "How old are you?" 

"Twenty-three,” you say behind your cup of coffee.

You expect him to laugh, raise his eyebrows in disbelief, make some jokes, or just be generally appalled, but he does none of that. Instead he just looks at you, completely silent. You can't read his face and it makes you frustrated. You're usually good at reading people.

You can't look at him in the eye. You say, teasingly, "Is that a problem?"

"No," he says. Still looking. Still unreadable.

After that, well. After that.

—

You don't remember the script having this many sex scenes when you first read it.

The thing about filming sex scenes is: there's nothing intimate about it. It's all hot lights and equipment and people. People everywhere. The boom lady stuffing the last piece of donut in her mouth while everybody gets set up. The makeup guy powdering your face. Camera guys everywhere. 

But, apart from breakfast together almost every morning, you and Sebastian get to know the most about each other while you're in bed, in between takes.

Once or twice — or five times, really — you laugh so hard that one of you snorts and the director has to get up from his chair and give you both this really quiet and stern talking-to just to get you to stop.

It's not the least bit glamorous or romantic, not at all. But sometimes, sometimes, after the director calls 'cut' and Sebastian pulls away from your mouth — or between your thighs or the crook of your neck — he looks at you. For a split second, he looks at you, his eyes flicking up and down your face like he's trying to memorize it or figure it out. Something seizes inside your chest.

Then he blinks and it's gone. He sits back with an easy smile and a chuckle, asking if you're okay.

—

You are sitting cross-legged on Sebastian's bed, when you find out.

It's been three long weeks of shooting and you've just wrapped up all your sex scenes, so you're eating a celebratory meal consisting of lots of fried, greasy American fast-food.

His phone rings and you watch as his eyes light up when he sees the caller ID.

"Hello, beautiful," he says. It comes out a little garbled because his mouth is full of chili cheese fries.

The person on the other end of the line seems to understand, anyway — you can tell this from the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and his mouth grins at their response.

"I'm eating dinner with— yeah, mmhm," he looks at you then smiles even wider, "Margarita says hi."

 "...Hi."

"She says 'hi' back... yes, yeah... of course I'm being healthy, I'm eating chili cheese fries..." he laughs. "You know, mother henning me doesn't suddenly become cute just because the Atlantic Ocean is between us... okay, okay, I'll stop sassing, if you stop sassing... okay, alright... Why you up so late? Been partying without me?" He's honest-to-god giggling. "Okay, goodnight, go to sleep... I know, I can't wait to see you... tell the dog I miss her and to stay away from my shoes... okay, I love you... bye."

You've been staring at him with your mouth hanging open throughout this conversation, so as soon as he hangs up the phone you take a huge bite out of your cheeseburger. You try to sound casual, "who was that?"

"Margarita,” he says, like your crazy not to know already.

"Margarita.”

"Yeah."

"You've never mentioned her before." You would have remembered. These kinda things don't just slip by you.

"'Course I have," he shrugs, a matter-of-factly, reaching over you for some fries.

"No... you haven't. I would've remembered."

"I could've sworn I told you," his eyebrows are drawn together.

You feel humiliated, shame prickling and heating up your ears. You don't know why you feel so affected, like someone had made you the butt of the joke, everyone pointing and laughing at you. Still, you have no right to be angry. He did nothing wrong.

He's noticed a shift in your mood, looks at you in question.

You shake it off, allow your shoulders to relax and your voice to sound casual, careless. You're good at that. "No, wait you're right. I think you have told me, I just forgot. Must be losing some brain cells from spending so much time around you."

He throws a fry at you.

—

He has a girlfriend.

Your mind immediately conjures up an image of him wrapped up like a mummy in that yellow 'CAUTION DO NOT ENTER' tape.

He's off-limits. Alright. So what? I mean sure, he's cute. He's got those eyes and those really soft, cupid's bow lips and he gives really warm hugs and buys you food when you forget to eat and sometimes, in the morning, he doesn't bother to fix his hair, so it sticks up everywhere and you imagine running your fingers through it and just grabbing and pulling—

Whatever. He's annoying, anyway. He likes sugary drinks from Starbucks and wears too much J. Crew and is fucking obsessed with _Seinfeld_. 

You can do this.

The next morning you text him saying you can't meet up for breakfast.

_ Dinner then? _

_ Sorry can't! Gonna be super busy all day _

You stuff your phone in the bottom of your purse.

—

There's a knock on the door. When you open it, he's standing there with a paper bag in his hand, eyebrows furrowed, squinting at you.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

"What?"

"You're avoiding me. Why?"

You point to the paper bag in his hand. “Is that from  _Buchwald_?"

"Yes," he pulls it away as you reach for it and holds it to his chest, like he's protecting a baby. "Don't change the subject. You're avoiding my questions now, too? Come on, answer me."

"I'm not avoiding you, I've just been really busy, alright? I have to wake up at five in the morning now because Anna changed the call sheet on me last—"

"Bullshit. We were all supposed to have dinner together last night and everyone showed up. Except you."

"I was tired."

He heaves a huge sigh as if he's echoing your sentiment. He leans his forehead on the door frame and looks at you, quiet when he says, "I know I did something wrong or else you wouldn't be acting like this. Come on. Tell me. What'd I do?"

He's looking at you with worried, serious eyes. You feel guilt twist inside you and suddenly, the guard you've been holding up against him for the past couple of weeks crumbles and falls. Rubble at your feet.

"Nothing. You didn't do anything. I'm just... homesick, feeling a little weird. Just wanted to be alone for a while." It's not a lie, not really. "It's nothing you did."

He nods and looks at the ground. He says, almost shyly, "You could've told me. You can tell me anything, you know."

No, you can't. "I know."

There's a weird moment where you both just smile at each other, not really knowing what to say. Then:

"Now, are you gonna let me in so we can stuff our faces with this  _baumkuchen_ or not?"

—

This is the first time you've seen each drunk and it surprises you that it took this long for it to happen.

When you both stumble out of the bar, ready to walk home, he takes your hand in his and doesn't let go. You feel so light and giddy you don't bother to make him stop, you hold on tighter.

"Are we walking the right way?" It seems like you've been walking for ages. He's been leading you the whole way, because nothing looks familiar and you can't seem to focus on the street signs no matter how hard you try. He knows more German than you anyway.

"Yeah," he laughs and steadies you when you trip. He gives your hand a tug. "Come on."

You turn at the corner and suddenly you're walking through the courtyard of your apartment complex. Something bright and shiny and very blue catches the corner of your eye.

"Let's swim," you tug him towards the direction of the pool.

He doesn't budge, "We can't. Pool's closed. Plus, it's fucking freezing."

"Come on," you pull at him with both hands now. You're vaguely aware that you're whining, "Please."

"Why, when we can be in bed. Sleeping."

"Sebastian." You're still whining. An undignified bottom lip sticks out. "Please."

He groans, overdramatic. "Fine."

He jumps over the short fence first and helps you down with his hands on your hips and yours on his shoulders. You toe off your shoes, strip out of your jacket and dress hurriedly. You're only wearing panties underneath. You wrap your arms tight around your chest. He's right, it is fucking freezing. You think about ditching this plan altogether, but you’re too stubborn to give him the satisfaction.

You look over and he's standing there, only in a pair of tight grey boxer-briefs. The light reflecting from the pool becomes him.

You both dive in and watch each other underwater. One of you starts to laugh, causing both of you to rise up for air.

"Thank fuck the pool is heated," he says, laughing, a little out of breath. He rakes both his hands through his hair to smooth it back then runs it back down to wipe at his face, blinking away the water.

Something about the gesture tugs at your heart and you feel a sudden, overwhelming fondness towards him. You get a strong urge to be close to him, but the water and the cold air has sobered you up a little and you swim away.

He follows you to where you’re floating on your back, your head resting at the edge of the pool. You turn your head to look at him to see that he's giving you one of those looks again. You feel taken by that gaze, completely owned by it. It suddenly makes you angry and self-conscious.

"Stop that." Your toes touch back to the bottom of the pool.

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that."

"How am I looking at you?"

"Like  _that_ ," you practically spit at him. You know you're being irrational but you can't help it. You hug yourself, hyperaware of the fact that your breasts are completely bare and out for him to see, your nipples hardening in the cold. It's nothing he hasn't seen before. Still.

"Like what, what am I doing? What's wrong?" He's moving towards you, trying to reach out.

You move back, "Don't."

"Hey," he says softly, hands up, placating. Your face must look some kind of way for him to look at you like that, like he's trying to calm a scared, wounded animal. "It's ok. I'm sorry, I'm not gonna do anything."

You nod then shake your head, vigorously. "Fuck. Sorry, I'm sorry. I don't know why—"

"Hey, it's okay, it's alright," his voice is soft, almost a whisper and suddenly you're in his arms, his huge, blue eyes looking at you with all the care and worry in the world.

You look into them, once again help captive. Then his mouth moves, ever so slightly, catching your attention and now you can't decide where to look, his eyes or his mouth, his eyebrows, the slope of his nose, the curve of his cheek, the cleft of his chin. His tongue, kitten pink, suddenly darts out to lick quickly at his mouth and you're entranced by it, mesmerized by the shiny, wet glaze it left on his bottom lip. You become irrationally jealous, suddenly wanting a taste for yourself, so you place your fingertips against his jaw, your breasts against his chest and you tilt your chin up, so close, feeling his while entire body inhale—

"Hey! _Du bist nicht erlaubt, hier zu sein_!" A loud voice booms across the courtyard.

You pull away from each other so quickly it gives you whiplash. It goes by in a blur, pulling yourselves out of the pool and grabbing your clothes, Sebastian yelling an apology in German before running into the building. By the time you get in the elevator, you're both laughing hysterically, gasping for breath and slumping against the walls for balance, the leftover adrenaline running through your bodies and making you even giddier, the moment in the pool forgotten.

After you catch your breath, it sinks in how cold and soaking wet you both are. Sebastian wipes you down with his t-shirt then makes you put on his large jacket as he shoves his wet legs into his jeans. You see he's pressed the button for the sixth floor. Your floor.

Neither of you say anything as he follows you to your door. You fumble at the pockets of your jacket for your keys. You feel him behind you, watching you. Your hand is shaking when it turns the doorknob.

As soon as the door closes you hear a clatter on the floor and you turn then he's crowding you against the wall, palms flat and eyes boring down into your face. Your crumpled clothes fall from your hands and joins his on the floor.

Slowly, one of his hands comes up to the side of your neck, his thumb tracing a line from the hinge of your jaw until his hand is wrapped loosely around your throat with his thumb under your chin, tilting your head upwards.

He's looking at your mouth, "I really wanna kiss you right now."

You hope your voice doesn't shake, "You've kissed me plenty of times."

"No," his thumb on your bottom lip. You want to open your mouth and let him in. The thought makes your head spin, it makes your mouth water, your pussy wet. "I haven't."

You watch him battle with himself, the frustration visible on his face, his thumb still tracing your lips. All you can think is, _me too_.

He pulls away from you, but not without great effort. His throat bobs as he swallows. 

He looks at you through his lashes and his voice is rough when he says, "I want my jacket back, though."

You don't dare move. Gently, he pulls back his jacket from your shoulders, his eyes fixed upon the skin being bared inch by inch. Once the jacket's completely off, his gaze stays on the slopes of your breasts, your hard, pink nipples, then travels down between your legs, looking at what's been exposed by the piece of wet white cotton. He crouches down and a loud pulsing surges in your ears.

He's gathering up his clothes and shoes in a bundle. When he straightens up there's a slight smugness on his face. You want him so bad you don't even care.

"Goodnight," he says, pausing with a hand on the doorknob.

"Goodnight."

Long after he's gone, you have three fingers inside of you and a mouthful of pillow, to keep from yelling his name, when you come so hard you white out and your body shakes until you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

—

He's humming to himself as he twirls a spatula in his hand, looking down at the pancakes before him almost lovingly.

You know exactly why he's in a good mood but you ask anyway, "Any reason why you're being extra annoying this morning?"

He makes a face at you over the kitchen counter, then he cracks and a huge smile breaks out across his face. The sun parting the clouds. "Margarita's coming tomorrow." 

It's been a week since that night at the pool and neither of you have mentioned it. It's like you're showing mercy to each other by making a silent agreement to temporarily ignore whatever the hell this thing is between you.

"She can't wait to meet you."

"Me neither," you lie. It doesn't sound like one though.

—

Margarita is beautiful and funny and bright and a huge breath of fresh air. You can't help but love her immediately. 

When she makes a joke, Sebastian throws his head back helplessly and laughs with his entire body and when he listens to her speak, he looks right at her, so adoringly, so tenderly, like he wants to commit every piece of her to memory and keep it only for himself. There's so much love in him for her and it breaks something inside of you, leaves you feeling hollow. 

In another life, you could have been her friend.

— 

You go out dancing with them. 

There's a thousand other places you'd rather be — really, just anywhere either of them won't be — but Sebastian and Margarita are an impressively persuasive pair. Perhaps to them, 'no' means 'keep convincing me'. 

He's been in an annoyingly good mood since she got here. There's an enthusiastic bounce to his step as he walks between you both, a smile etched on his face the whole time he speaks animatedly to Margarita about all the things he and you have gone to see in the city. 

When you get to the club, they both rush to the dance floor. You rush to the bar.

You wave to the bartender, " _Whisky, bitte_."

You give a quick thanks as you take the drink and immediately down the burning liquid in one gulp. You wipe at your mouth, satisfied at the instantaneous warmth that runs through you. You ask for another.

" _Das ist beeindruckend. Für ein kleines Mädchen wie du._ " 

You turn to where the voice is coming and see the amused face of a man in a leather jacket. He's older, blonde and attractive, in a rugged sort of way, like you wouldn't doubt him for a second if he told you he knows just the right way to kill a man with his bare hands. He also got big, blue eyes that are waiting for you to say something.

You shake your head, "Sorry, I don't really speak German."

" _Du könntest mich zum Narren gehalten haben._ "

"I don't— sorry," you shake your head again and start to walk away when you feel a hand at your elbow.

"It's a good thing I know how to speak English then," he says, voice thick with an accent.

"Yeah," you smile. "Good thing. And you speak it well, too. Better than most Americans."

This makes him laugh. "Max," he says and lets go of your elbow to extend his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Max," you say, shaking his hand.

"So what’s got a girl like you drinking whiskey like it's water?"

“A boy."

"Ahh. I see. In that case, would you like another drink?"

His eyes are smiling. There's a calm, wicked way about him, there's nothing pretty about him at all. Nothing like Sebastian. 

"Yes," you say. "Yes I would."

— 

A little later, you're sitting at the bar, nursing your fourth glass of whiskey, waiting for Max to come back from the bathroom. Over the loud music you hear a familiar voice call your name and turn to see Sebastian walking towards you. His eyes are dark and there's a firm set to his jaw and you immediately know something's wrong.

"Hey," you yell over the thumping bass, "What's wrong? Where's Margarita?"

“We’ve been looking for you." Any traces of his good mood are gone. There's something impatient about him, like he's itching to do something. "Who's that guy you're talking to?"

“I’m sorry, I told you I was gonna be at the bar." You've never seen him act like this. “His name’s Max, he's from Westend. He speaks really good English."

"You know him?" he says, angry, like he can't believe it.

"Now I do, yeah. I met him, like, twenty minutes ago."

He exhales roughly, his nostrils flaring. You half-expect steam to come out of his ears.

“Hey. Sebastian," you touch his arm gently. "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head and suddenly grabs your arm, pulling you up from your seat, if not a little rough, "Come on, we're going home."

“Woah, hey no, I'm not ready to leave yet."

"You didn't even want to come here in the first place."

“Yeah, well I changed my mind.“

"Come on," he says, again, frustrated. He clamps his big hand on your forearm and tugs.

"Let go.” But he doesn't. He keeps holding on and it hurts. "Sebastian. Stop it.”

"You better listen to her."

Sebastian looks up at the voice. There's a look on his face that you've never seen before. It's mean and ugly and reckless and you wanna wipe it from his face forever. "You Max?"

"Yeah. You have a problem?" Max moves you so you're behind him, blocking Sebastian from you, even though he's still got your arm in a vice.

"Don't touch her." 

Max just looks at him evenly. You know he won't even think twice about hurting him. Beating his fists against his face until his skull is crushed into a bloody pulp.

You're about to say something when Margarita, god bless her, suddenly arrives. Sebastian unsticks his grip on your arm. Her confused, worried eyes flick back and forth between the three of you. "What's happening?"

"Nothing, nothing," You say and smile, easygoing. You put a hand against Max's chest to get him to relax. "We were just about to dance."

You pull Max away from the scene and to the dance floor and he goes easily enough. 

“I’m guessing he’s the boy.”

"That obvious?"

"Neither of you are even trying to be subtle."

That's when you realize that you actually really like this guy. You laugh and reach up to peck him on the lips.

His hands go to your hips as you both begin to sway to the music. It's a little while before Max says, "I wouldn't have hurt him, you know. Not unless you wanted me to."

 

—

Max fucks you on the same bed that just yesterday you and Sebastian had been eating leftover cold pizza on.

You come twice — once with his four of his fingers inside of you and his mouth sucking at your clit and once again with him fucking hard and brutal into you, one hand pinning both your wrists on the bed and the other wrapped around your throat.

Now you're smoking on the balcony, watching the glinting specks of light littering the city. In about an hour, the sun will start to rise. 

Max is looking at you as he takes a drag out of his cigarette. There's a softness in his face that makes you self-conscious. You turn away, hiding your face in your hair.

He takes a last drag then flicks his cigarette over the balcony. He walks over and wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing his lips to your temple. 

"Will I see you again?" he asks.

You like Max. He's sharp, clever and dangerously sexy, with the driest sense of humor imaginable. You've only spent a night with him, yet something about him makes you feel completely safe, like he would go to the ends of the earth trying to protect you. 

At the bar, he told you a story from his childhood, about him beating up three neighborhood boys after he saw them throwing rocks at a bluebird perched on a tree. He managed to knock all of them out and walked away with only three broken bones in his hand. 

If it weren't for—

You turn around in his arms and look at him in the eye, trying to tell him without telling him, smiling with your mouth shut so tight to keep yourself from crying. You blink and a tear rolls down anyway.

He wipes them away with his knuckles, nodding. "Because of that boy, right?"

You nod, hastily wiping at your face and nose. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," he says. Then, very softly he kisses you on your forehead, then your eyelids, your cheek, and at last, your mouth. The tenderness of it breaks your heart. He puts his jacket on and walks away. You turn your back so you don't have to watch him walk out the door.

After the door shuts, there’s a pause then you hear soft, slow footsteps coming towards you. Hope and surprise swell in your chest.

When you turn around, Sebastian is there.

Your heart is beating so fast it feels like it's choking you. 

"You should come back inside. You gonna freeze to death out there."

You aren't wearing any clothes, not really. Just a small silk robe that you haphazardly threw on, too worn out after being with Max; you didn't even bother to tie it up and close it. Doesn't matter. He's already seen all of it. All of you.

"Come back inside."

You take a drag off your cigarette and jut out your chin defiantly, even as your whole body shakes. 

He sighs and walks back inside. You hear him shuffle around and when he comes back, he’s got one of your soft throw blankets in his hands. Softness and warmth surround you when he drapes it over your shoulders, his hands lingering on your shoulders. It would be so easy, so easy to just let it go and fall into him and stay exactly like that for as long as you both allow yourselves. 

But you push him off you, using your elbows, rougher than you’d meant to. When you look at his face, his eyes are hard and his mouth twists, a silent fury coming back to him. Behind him the glass door shows a vague reflection of the twinkling city lights. You stare at that and pull the blanket tighter around yourself. You think he’s finally gonna just turn around and leave and then— 

“You fucked him.” It’s almost a question. 

Your eyes snap back to his. It’s not fair. “You fucked her.”

His eyes are glassy as his head shakes. “That’s… that’s—”

“Yeah. Yeah, you fucking hypocrite.”

His face scrunches up like he’s about to growl and when he actually does, he comes at you all at once. You stagger back as one hand comes up to clutch at your jaw and another grips your hip so hard you feel the pad of a thumb too close against your bones.

The jealousy in him is vicious and unforgiving yet your fucked up brain looks up at the tense lines of his face, his set jaw and flaring nostrils and thinks:  _beautiful_.

“Tell me what he did to you,” he gives your face a quick, rough shake, “Huh? Tell me.”

He has no right. This is so fucked up and he has no right. You don’t care. You wrap both your hands around his thick wrist just to hold on.

“How’d he fuck you? Face down, from the back? He roughed you up didn’t he. He held you down and you bit into your pillow and tried real hard not to cry out my name when you came.”

He’s looking at you that way again, but this time there’s a savage sort of hunger in his eyes that makes you want to fall to your knees at his feet and say _please_.

“Please what?” 

“ _Please_ ,” you say again.

“You thought about me didn’t you, sweetheart,” his thumb is at your bottom lip, his eyes too. “You wished it were me. You wished that it was me inside you, fucking you.”

A tear slips down but he swipes it away quickly. Your eyes close at the feeling of his thumb brushing softly over and over again along your cheekbone. It feels like an apology.

Your voice is a whisper, “I wish— I wish...”

“I know,” he says all tender-like. The anger in him has gone. You only realize now that the hand on your jaw has changed into a loose cradle at the side of your face and that the grip on your hips has gone. He has his arm wrapped around securely your middle, keeping you close and tight against him, the only thing keeping you from falling to your knees. 

“I know,” he says again. “Me too.”

 

—

 

Margarita leaves a few days later. Everything changes.

You get back to work. You don’t eat breakfast together — nor lunch, nor dinner — you don’t talk in between takes. You both love your job too much to not give you’re entire self when the cameras are rolling. But as soon as it stops you look everywhere but at each other and fake a smile for everyone else. He doesn’t knock on your door at strange hours and you don’t open the door and see him standing there with a bag of food and his dumb jokes and crinkled blue eyes. You don’t hear him laugh or see his eyes smile or feel his arm casually drape on your shoulders.  

Not anymore.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this turned into a tripartite clusterfuck because I got carried away writing FEELINGS. oops

 

It’s a strange sort of relief to know that there’s a good 350 kilometers separating you from Sebastian.

He left this morning, with Michael, Rosario, Charlie and Aubrey — had packed up and driven down to Prague in a rented BMW. They’re spending a few days in Praha 1, drinking beer and club-hopping and trashing Michael’s cousin’s expensive apartment in Old Town Square. 

You were supposed to come. You all planned this trip over a month ago. Back when you and Sebastian still shared buttered scones and drank off each other’s coffees. Before all the shit hit the fan.

You wanted to go, but not if Sebastian was going to be there. It’s stupid and childish to act like a martyr about it because despite everything, you know he isn’t that much of a prick to not let you enjoy something like this. Yet it’s one thing to work with him, and another thing entirely to endure a cramped car ride and three days of nonstop partying with him. All the while pretending that everything’s just peachy between you two.

Sebastian only found out just as they were leaving. When he saw Rosario getting into the car instead of you, he almost didn’t go. He looked at you for a second, betrayed and heartbroken, then moved to take his duffel out of the car.

“Sebastian,” you said. “Don’t be dumb.”

He shook his head, “Not if you’re not going. It wouldn’t be fair.”

You chuckled. Ain’t that the truth. “Well it’s my choice, so. Go.”

He didn’t move.

“Come on. One of us has to,” you faked a smile. “Eat some roasted pork knee for me.”

He didn’t smile back. He got in the car anyway, but not before he held your face between his hands and gave you a kiss on the cheek. 

 

—

 

When you’re upset, you clean.

Having days off means there’s no work to distract yourself from the tragic embarrassment of your life. So you’re remedying this situation by polishing your entire apartment — floor to ceiling, every little nook and cranny — until it’s clean enough to eat of off. 

You’re vacuuming under your bed when a crumpled white napkin gets clogged inside the hose. You turn off the vacuum and wedge your fingers in the narrow orifice to pull it out, spreading dust everywhere.

“Ugh.” You sneeze.

You about to throw the napkin in the trash but there’s a scribble on it that makes you pause.

It reads:

_Wenn Sie, um den Jungen zu vergessen wollen,_

_+49 30 45316152_

_Max_

 

—

 

You spend the rest of the day in bed, intent on digging yourself deeper in a well of self-pity by watching Netflix and stuffing yourself with the leftover tortellini in your fridge. 

After you finish the entire last season of _30 Rock_ , you close your laptop with a sigh and stare at the dirty bar napkin. It’s sitting innocently on your nightstand, the exact same place you had left it this morning. 

You reach for your phone impulsively, ready to dial the number, when you suddenly catch a glimpse of your reflection staring back at you on the screen. You see dark circles, greasy hair, a tiny hole near the collar of your oversized t-shirt. A familiar deprecating feeling comes all at once and you look down at yourself, suddenly aware of your bloated stomach and the foul layer of dried sweat you haven’t bothered to wash off after a whole day’s exertion of cleaning. 

You throw your phone across the bed and it slides off onto the floor. Burying yourself under the covers, you close your eyes. Pathetic. 

 

—

 

Next thing you know, it’s light out and the clock reads 8:13.

You roll over and yawn. You wake slow and heavy, stretching like a cat. Outside, the sound of birds and the smell of grass fill the room. You turn over in an empty bed, the sun shining down on it through the window in parallel lines. 

On the nightstand, a bar napkin sits like a promise.  

It goes like a ceremony of atonement: you get up and take a long, warm shower. You moisturize your body, blow-dry your hair. You put on some mascara, lipstick. You pinch your cheeks to put a little life back in your pallid complexion. You put on a dress, a jean jacket and your favorite boots. On your way out, you grab a book off your coffee table and tuck it under your arm.  

You take a train to Tiergarten and spend the whole morning walking around the park with your headphones in. For the first time in weeks, a wave of happiness washes over you and settles. 

In the afternoon you go to a cafe. You eat a sandwich and drink some expensive wine. You chain-smoke and read and watch the people around you — the children crying and running and screaming at birds, couples kissing, couples talking, couples that can’t even look at each other, old people with their hands shaking and eyes smiling, a group of teenagers giggling — all kinds of faces. Some are happy, some sad, some entirely unreadable. It makes you feel small. 

You don’t think about Sebastian. You don’t think about Margarita or Max or your aching heart. Instead, you think about the world — in all its immeasurable glory, there is nothing concrete. Every decision made causes a ripple in the water — for a second everything is disturbed, but it settles itself soon enough, just as it was. The fleeting nature of life and all that.

You look down at your book.

_Time will say nothing but I told you so,_

_Time only knows the price we have to pay;_

_If I could tell you I would let you know._

 

—

 

Over the phone, Max had told you that he would be picking you up for dinner at eight o’clock. 

It is now 8:16, so you’re standing anxiously in front of the mirror, scrutinizing your reflection and wondering if this dress was a little much for a first date. It’s not tight, but there’s definitely a lot of cleavage going on and—

Your phone rings. You swipe at it excitedly. “Hello?”

“Hi, I’m sorry this uh, thing, the doorbell? Or whatever it is… it won’t let me in. I think it’s broken.” You’re relieved to hear that he sounds just as anxious as you.

You laugh, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll come down.”

When you get there, Max is leaning against the wrought iron gates of your apartment, with his leather jacket and lopsided smile, looking as ruggedly handsome as the last time you saw him. 

“ _Na da its Kunst_ ,” he says under his breath, taking you in.

You raise your eyebrows at him, “What does that mean?”

There’s a glint in his eye. “I said ‘you have beautiful breasts.’”

“No, you didn’t,” you step forward, winding your hands around his shoulders and going on your tiptoes. “But thank you anyway.”

You press your lips against his, humming at the feeling of his arms wrapping all the way around you like protective armor. His tongue slides inside your mouth and you suck sweetly at it, tasting vanilla and mint cigarettes. You open your mouth wider and before you know it, the kiss turns messy and desperate — you're sucking at his lower lip and making a tight fist on the collar of his shirt. Max is practically hauling you up on your toes through the sheer force of the hand that’s currently grabbing at your ass. Right there. In the middle of the sidewalk. Where you can hear people walking by.

“We should—” he says against your mouth. “…go.”

“Mmm. Or. We can just go upstairs,” you say between kisses.

“That is very tempting,” but he loosens his hold on you. “But I must take you to dinner. I’m a gentleman, you know.”

Something about that statement tugs at your heart, suddenly pulling you back to a time when you stared up, wide-eyed at soft, chestnut hair and eyes colored like the deep end of a pool. 

You pull back from Max a little, forcing yourself to swallow the feeling down and smile. “If you insist.”

 

—

 

After you have stuffed yourselves full with pasta and wine and chocolate cake, Max moves a hand across the table, overlapping his fingers with yours. That’s when you see the dark, elegant script on the inside of his wrist.

“ _Angelika_ ” you read, running your finger gently against the thin skin there.

“My daughter,” he says.

“That’s a beautiful name,” you don’t stop touching his wrist, tracing the blue veins there. “How old is she?”

“She’s five years old now. She lives with her mother in Mitte. Near your apartment, actually.” 

“Is that why you were on my side of town when I met you?”

“Yes,” he smiles like he’s been caught. “I always see her on weekends.”

“I’d love to meet her,” you finish off the last of your wine. “I bet she’s as much of a troublemaker as her daddy.”

He laces your fingers together and nods. “Yeah, she’s a heartbreaker, that girl. Just like you.”

“Aw, I break your heart already? It's only our first date, Max,” you say teasingly.

“No, not yet,” he says, smiling. Then his eyes turn serious, “But you’re definitely going to break that boy’s.”

Your eyes drop to where your hands are joined together. “He’s not in love with me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

You think about Margarita, the way Sebastian looks at her. “Yes.”

Max squints at you doubtfully and rubs his thumb against your hand sympathetically. “Are you in love with him?”

Yes. Of course the answer is yes. But if you say it out loud that will make it real and you really, really don’t want it to be. So instead you say:

“Wanna go dancing?”

 

—

 

The club is unsurprisingly jam-packed on a Saturday night, but of course Max is friends with the bouncer — and the owner and the bartender — so you have no difficulty getting in. 

“ _Wodka, machen es zwei_ ,” he says to Milo, the bartender, who says something indecipherable to Max and waggles his eyebrows when he gets a look at you. 

Max just laughs easily, “ _Verpiss dich, Arschloch.”_

_“_ Another comment about my tits, I’m guessing?” you ask after Milo walks away.

“ _Prost_ ,” he says clinking your glasses together then downing the shot. “Of course. What else would it be about?”

You sock him in the arm. “ _Verpiss dich, Arschloch.”_

He laughs, loud and open at that and warmth spreads instantly in your chest, proud of yourself for making him look that way.

—

 

Six shots later, you’re both very tipsy and groping at each other in the middle of the dance floor.

You’ve long stopped trying to actually dance, opting to just make out and grind slowly against each other. The same beat of techno music has been booming over and over again, for god knows how long and, with the exception of you two, everyone in the crowd seems to be loving it. Their sweaty bodies are pulsating collectively, their faces in utter ecstasy and you can’t, for the life of you, understand why. It sound less like music and more like the sound of a soda can slowly being crushed. Europeans are fucking weird.

You try to drown out the grating sounds by kissing Max harder. He’s got his entire body bowed over you, arching you backwards, giving you a pretty good angle to rub yourself against the thigh nestled between your legs. He’s sucking his way down the side of your neck, leaving little bruises there, when you feel him rub one of your nipples through the fabric of your dress. You feel your face flush, even though nobody around seems to even care.

“Max…” 

He doesn’t hear you.

“ _Max_ ,” you say a little louder, tugging at his hair.

“Hmm?” he pulls away reluctantly, licking his lips.

“Can we— Let’s get out of here.”

He smiles lopsidedly, “Okay.”

“Okay,” you echo. Then you say, “I’m going to the bathroom to pee and then we’re gonna leave so we can get into bed and you can fuck me nice and proper.”

He’s a little slack-jawed after you say that. You laugh the whole way to the bathroom.

 

—

 

You’re on your way out when a sudden flood of feisty, drunk blonde girls rushes toward you, causing you to stumble, hard. You’re halfway to falling on your face but someone catches you just in time.

“Oof. Sorry, I—” you look up at the good samaritan and— _shit._ Shit shit shit shit.

You back away from Sebastian like you’ve been burned.

“Are you alright?” 

He looks so damn doe-eyed and earnest when he says it, too. But you’re not supposed to be talking him. You’re not friends and you’re supposed to be mad at him. He’s a jerk. A jerk that you haven’t seen since he left for Prague. Speaking of—

“What are you doing here?” you’re vaguely aware of how petulant you sound right now. “What are you doing here, you’re supposed to be in Prague.”

“I drove back early by myself. I wasn’t in the mood.”

It’s so easy to get lost in staring at his handsome boy face, so you do. For a second you just take in his blue, blue eyes and his red lips and the cute little crinkle between his brows. Then you remember that you _can’t —_   _you’re not supposed to, he has a girlfriend, he’s off-limits_ —  so you force yourself to look away, fast. It makes everything go sideways.

“Woah,” you say. You must be drunker than you thought. “I’m drunker than I thought.”

“Easy,” he steadies you with his hands. His very nice, very large hands. “Come on. C’mere, let’s go. I’ll take you home.”

You shake your head, “I don’t need you to. Max is here. He can take me.”

A dark look passes over his face. You disentangle yourself from his arms and walk away very quickly so you don’t have to time to be dizzy. Sebastian’s voice is calling out your name but you ignore him determinedly.

You’re pretty impressed by the fact that you manage to not eat shit as you weave through the huge crowd on the way to the bar. You keep walking until you run into someone’s back. Fortunately, it’s Max's.

“Hello there,” he says, laughing a little.

You lean into him and let him hold you. “Let’s go home. Take me home now, please.”

Quickly, he says something to the bartender and gives him a couple bills. “Alright, let’s go.”

He’s leading you by the hand and you’re almost out the door when Sebastian appears in front of you.

“I can take it from here, man,” he says to Max.

“We don’t need your help.” Max tries to side-step him but Sebastian moves with him. 

“Well I wasn’t asking.”

“ _Geh mir aus dem Weg, Kleiner. Sie will nicht, Sie._ ”

“ _Fick dich ins Knie. Ließ sie los_.” Sebastian replies smoothly.

They yell at each other in more angry German and you roll your eyes, ready to cut in and stop this childishness when Max says, in clear, loud English, “She’s not yours not play with as you please.”

Sebastian flinches. Then his nostrils flare and his eyes go hard, looking like he’s about to rip Max’s throat out. “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

Max’s laugh is humorless. “I don’t? Because to me, it seems like you’re just another indecisive child that takes pleasure on treating people like they’re toys. _Du verdienst es nicht, sie zu haben._ ”

Then Sebastian huffs, steps back, and punches Max square in the face.

 

—

 

You’re sitting behind the bar, dabbing at the split skin on Max's cheekbone. It’s definitely gonna leave a scar.

He sees you wincing at it and he smiles crookedly, “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

That makes you laugh. It took about three guys to get Sebastian of off Max. Once he threw the first punch, he wouldn’t stop. Just kept hitting and hitting until he had Max under him on the ground. You tried to stop him too, but only got an elbow in the stomach for your efforts. Max didn’t even fight back.

You’re smile fades and you look at him in eye, “You didn’t even bother trying to hit him.”

“There was no point.”

“ _No point_? You could’ve stopped him from beating your face _bloody_ , that could've been the point.”

He shakes his head, “You care about him. So I didn't hurt him.”  _  
_

It takes your breath away. This man, this dangerous, beautiful, selfless man — you could fall in love him so easily if you tried. But you know you can’t, you won’t let yourself, not when Sebastian’s there. It’s fucking frustrating. 

You want so much to cry, but your bite back the tears and try real hard to put some lightness in your voice, “Some first date, huh?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“What could possibly top this?” 

“It’s just blood,” he shrugs.

“That may be, but I think you’re gonna need stitches,” you push yourself up on your feet and reach out a hand to help him up.

“I think so too,” he winces as he dabs another tissue on his cheek. “I should go to the hospital.”

“Yeah, I’ll call a cab.”

After you make the call, he stops you and says, “You should go home.”

“No, I wanna stay with you.”

“I can take care of myself,” he says kindly.

It makes you panic, the way he says it, like he’s saying goodbye. Your voice comes out small, “Will you call me after? So I know you’re okay. So I can come see you.”

“ _Liebling,_ ” he says reverently, holding your face between his hands. “I’ll be alright. But you, you have to take care of yourself. Whatever it is between you and him, you have to solve on your own. I can’t be in the middle of that. It will just make everything worse, I promise you.”

He's right. He's so completely right and he deserves a whole lot better than you.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m sorry. You’re so good and I could— I could, if I let myself. But Sebastian got here first and now he just won’t leave.”

He smiles sadly. “He’s a prickly bastard, that boy.” 

You let out a watery laugh, “He is. Goddamn him.”

 

—

 

You kiss Max goodbye on the sidewalk outside the club, right before he gets into a cab. Through the window, he looks at you, lopsided grin and bloody face and all, as the car drives off and becomes and smaller and smaller until it disappears altogether.

You’re not exactly surprised to see Sebastian standing there when you turn around.

His eyes are shining and he’s got his hands in his pockets, looking ashamed and sheepish. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” you grit out and make sure to check him with your shoulder as you walk past him.

He says your name, “Wait, I—”

You walk faster but he follows anyway.

_“_ Wait,” he says, catching up to you. “Wait, can we just—“

You stop abruptly, “What? Can we just what?”

“Talk,” he says, a little desperate, “I just wanna talk to you and say that I’m sorry.”

You laugh bitterly, “Oh now you’re sorry? How fucking convenient. It takes seeing me with another guy for you to be sorry.” 

“I was scared. Okay? I’m a fucking coward.” He has a manic look in his eyes. “I hurt you and I knew it, but I didn’t do anything about it and I am so sorry for that.”

You exhale roughly, shaking your head. You put your face in your hands, frustrated, then whip your eyes back up at him. “Why did you do it then? Why did you come up to my room that night and say all those things? Why did you have to when your girlfriend was sleeping right _there_ —” 

“I couldn’t stand it,” he gets up close and holds your wrists in his hands pleadingly. “I hated seeing you with him, knowing that he’d touched you, that it wasn’t me… it made me crazy. You make me fucking crazy—”

He sounds so wrecked, his eyes wide and wet and frantic. Your heart clenches in empathy and you push him away, “Sebastian…”

“I want you.”

You blink and feel a tear slip down your cheek, “Don’t say that.”

“I _want_ you,” he says again.

“Too bad,” your voice breaks. “You can’t have me. Just like I can’t have you.”

He wipes at his wet cheeks messily. His knuckles are split and bloody. “That’s not true.”

“Yes it is.” It can't be like this, you have to make him understand. “Why would you even— Why? Why would you want me when you have her?”

Tears are falling steadily down his face now, but his voice is steady and his eyes look right at you when he says, “Loving her won’t stop me from loving you.”

It’s just a mere statement of fact, the way it comes out, though that doesn’t stop it from feeling like a sucker punch in the gut.

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” he says, rueful.

Your face scrunches up and you start to cry, sobbing in your hands. It's a crazy sort of feeling, being relieved and afraid and hopeful all at once. He holds you through it, until you’ve got your face pressed into his soft blue sweater and he’s pressing soft kisses against your hair.

“Be honest,” you wipe your face and pull back a little to look up at him. “How many times did you practice that line in the mirror?”

Sebastian laughs, eyes bright, then kisses you for real. For the first time, he kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, with nobody else watching or telling you what to do. 

He kisses desperately, open-mouthed, wet and hungry. You take all that he gives and let a part of yourself slip away and get lost in him, even if just for a little while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise the next chapter will just be about sex and sebastian


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lo and behold! i finished it
> 
> warning: sex and crying up ahead

 

“How do I look?”

 Fucking ridiculous, that’s how he looks. It’s unfair. 

It’s fashion week in Berlin — or so your assistant tells you — and the whole cast managed to get invited to the Vogue after party at Borchardt. Why Vogue wants a bunch of indie film actors at a shindig as swanky as this, you’ll never know. Though now you wish they’d take it all back, just so you wouldn’t have to see the sight Sebastian makes right now — standing in your foyer, looking stupidly hot and dapper as hell in a crisp black suit, his hair slicked back and wearing a fucking bow tie.

 “Your tie’s crooked,” you grumble.

 His smug face falls as he goes to fix it self-consciously. “Will you come out so I can get a look at you?”

You unstick your head out of the door to close it and look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. You and Aubrey went dress shopping yesterday and found this dress — a deep red color, long and flowing with the very high slit and a neckline that goes all the way down to your navel. You fluff your hair up and think about the inevitable nip slip that’s gonna happen tonight, but otherwise the whole look is a pretty decent job. You take a breath and open the door. 

“Ta-da,” you put on a sarcastic face.

He doesn’t say anything. He’s not even smiling, but his eyes are unblinking and his mouth is kind of hanging open, drinking you in from head to toe. It’s like being laid out on a petri dish under a microscope with his gaze roaming everywhere on you like that, like he can’t decide where he wants to look. Then after a moment his focus lands on your mouth and just as quickly it drops down to your chest, lingers there.

“Hey,” you chuck him under the chin. “Eyes up here.”

He clears his throat and brings his eyes up to yours. “Sorry. Got distracted.”

“So, what’s the verdict?”

Sebastian’s mouth curves downward and he shrugs, unimpressed.

You punch him in the shoulder. “Asshole.”

He grabs your wrist and laughs, turning you around so he’s got you pushed up against the wall. 

“You look like shit, too,” you say as he presses his lips against yours.

He uses his mouth to open yours up, slipping his tongue inside and make it deep and dirty as he licks at your teeth, the roof of your mouth. You bring your hands up to his face, thumbs grazing his jaw and fingernails scratching at the short hairs on the back of his neck. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Sebastian says. One of his thighs moves in between your legs and he reaches down to hook one of your legs to his hip, the full, chiffon fabric grazing down your thigh. 

You blush, biting at his bottom lip, “You're not so bad yourself.”

The sudden sweet pressure between your legs makes you sigh in his mouth. One of his arms moves to hug you closer to him, his mouth sliding down your jaw to nip at the skin behind your earlobe. You hear him inhale.

“You smell so good,” he grips your ass pointedly. “Wanna eat you.”

“Mmm. Save your appetite, we still have to go to dinner.”

He groans petulantly then drops to his knees, moving your leg so its hooked on his shoulder instead. He looks up at you and licks his bottom lip, “I’m too hungry to wait.”

You would laugh except Sebastian’s already taking advantage of the slit of your dress by pushing the fabric away there and pressing his face against the front of your panties. You can feel him inhaling and kissing his way down, his fingers pushing away the little piece of cloth there then—

Three sharp knocks on your door and an impatient voice calling out your name, “Let’s go, we’re gonna be late! The Uber’s waiting!” 

You and Sebastian sigh at once, exasperated. You scratch at the back of his head, careful not to mess up his hair, as he strokes your thigh and he kisses you above the white lace apologetically. The he looks up at you, eyes all mischief, “To be continued, then.”

You pull him up by the lapels to kiss him. “Coming!”

When you open the door and they see Sebastian behind you, Michael and Aubrey stare with their eyebrows raised and a pair amused smiles on their faces.

“What?” 

“Nothing, nothing. Let’s get this shit show on the road, already.” 

You and Aubrey walk alongside each other as you watch Michael and Sebastian in front of you down the hall.

Right before you get into the elevator Aubrey says, “Nice job, dude. I’m impressed.”

Before you start to panic, you turn to look at her. There’s no trace of judgment in her face, just an easy, amused smile and, with a closer look, a kindness in her eyes saying, _Don’t worry. I know how to keep my mouth shut._

You give her a nervous smile, “Thanks.”

 

—

 

It’s like the brightest and most beautiful of the entire German population decided to gather in one place on this one night.

You sip on your champagne while everyone else around you talks to each other. Sebastian’s got a crowd of four surrounding him, listening to him talk animatedly about _Captain America_ or his humble European beginnings or whatever. Aubrey and Rosario are having a conversation with some important looking woman with a blonde bob. Michael’s laughing with some supermodels. Charlie’s high-fiving Michael Fassbender. 

You’re way in over your head here. This is possibly the most interesting thing that ever happened in your life. You’d only gotten your own IMDb page about a month ago, for chrissake. 

Nobody notices, but you slip away as inconspicuously as you can anyway. 

You stand outside the restaurant in despair, realizing you’ve brought your cigarettes but no lighter, when a striking young man, with a kind of jawline that could give Sebastian’s a run for its money, comes up to you and saves the day.

“ _Licht?_ ” he holds up his lighter. 

“ _Danke,_ ” you say, leaning in close and cupping your hands with his around the cigarette. The guy has got eyelashes for miles. Definitely a model.

After a moment he says, “ _Wie gehts?_ ”

“ _Gut. Und sie?_ ”

“ _Gut._ ” 

Another beat, then:

“Forgive me, but that’s about all the German I know,” he says in a crisp, English accent.

You laugh, releasing a cloud of smoke, “Me too.”

“How incredibly fortunate,” he says with a relieved chuckle. He sticks out his hand, “My name is Ben.”

You tell him yours. “Very nice to meet you.”

As he presses his lips to the back of your hand, you hear Sebastian’s voice call your name, “Hey, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

There’s an amiable smile on his face, but you know it’s all for show. He puts an arm around your waist and tugs you to his side pointedly.

“Hi!” he sticks out a hand to Ben, overenthusiastic. “How are ya?”

“Good, thank you.” He shakes Sebastian’s hand, “And yourself?”

“Just fine.”

There’s an awkward moment where Ben’s bemused gaze flicks back and forth between you two while Sebastian stares him down. You pinch the back of Sebastian’s bicep and try real hard not to roll your eyes.

“Well,” Ben says suddenly. “They’ll be serving dinner soon. I should…“ he jerks his thumbs towards the door as he backs away.

“It was nice meet you,” you call out and wave. “Thanks for the light!” When he’s out of earshot, you smack Sebastian on the shoulder. “Why do you always have to be such an asshole?”

“Why do you always have to get picked up by random guys when I’m not around?”

You let yourself roll your eyes, “He just gave me a light.”

He pouts, rubbing at his arm where you pinched him. “That hurt you know.”

“Good.”

“You gonna kiss it better?”

Jesus, this guy. You can’t fucking help yourself, you smile. “Shut up. Let’s go inside, I’m starving.”

 

—

 

Dinner is set communal style, complete with place cards, so you’re stuck sandwiched between Michael and Sebastian. Idris Elba and Marc Jacobs are sitting in front of you.  

You and Sebastian exchange a wide-eyed look, quietly freaking out.

When you ask the waiter to top off your rosé, Idris notices and you start bonding over your mutual appreciation for the Merlot, thus stirring up a heated debate within your part of the table.

“Quit being such a fucking purist, Marc. It’s 2015, rosé is the future,” Idris makes a case.

Marc rolls his eyes, “I don’t care. To me, if the trust fund babies in their tacky yachts that litter the waters of Ibiza were an alcoholic drink, it would be _that_ pink shit.” 

“Are you kidding me?” you say, appalled. “Look around, eighty percent of the people here are drowning themselves in the stuff.”

“Then I guess they’re all trust fund babies disguised in Balmain.”

“I saw Anna Wintour drinking it.” You didn’t. You take a sip of your wine, “You saying Anna Wintour’s a trust fund baby?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” 

Idris stares at him disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t be judging quality wine for it’s connotations.”

“Yeah, sorry Marc,” Michael agrees and downs his rosé. “I gotta disagree ‘cause whatever this shit is, it’s damn good.”

“That’s it then,” Idris mimes a gavel striking the table.“Three against one. You’re overruled, my friend.”

Marcs gapes, scandalized, then turns to Sebastian, who’s been oddly silent during this whole argument. “What about you, you got a side on this?”

Sebastian raises his eyebrows, startled at the sudden attention turned toward him, then knits his eyebrows, pretending to think about it. “Whatever gets me drunk the fastest.”

Everyone erupts into a chorus of laughter. Marc claps his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder.

Sebastian smiles quietly and you lean into him, your knee pressing against the length of his thigh. “You okay?”

His hand instinctually drops to touch you, his hand warm on your exposed thigh. He nods and doesn’t say anything for a moment, just absently traces some patterns on your skin. "I said 'to be continued,' didn't I?" he looks up at you through his lashes, eyes very big and gray and dangerous. His voice is low and quiet when he asks, “Will you do what I say?”

A sudden, unexpected heat pools low in your stomach, heating up the tips of your ears. You swallow and nod.

“Count to a minute. Then follow me,” he says and gets up all at once, striding to the direction of the bathroom.

On the chair next to Sebastian’s, Aubrey smiles at you knowingly. 

You start counting.

 

—

 

There’s no response after you give three light raps on the door of the men’s restroom. You’re only a little hesitant when you say, “Seb, are you there? It’s—”

The door swings open and you’re seized around the middle as the door is shut and locked with a click. 

In the midst of your confusion, he manages to get one strong arm locked around you, trapping your arms at your sides, while his hand clamps tight over your mouth. Your startled noises come out muffled through his fingers.

“Shh, shh,” he tightens his grip. “Gotta be quiet, sweetheart.”

You’ve only played this game once before, but you know how to take his cues when he makes them. You make a stubborn grunt and buck against his grip like you want him to let go.

“Hey,” he says and pulls your head back scoldingly so the only thing you can see is the ceiling, your throat bared for him. “You’re gonna be like that, huh?”

Sebastian bites hard at the thin skin under the corner of your jaw, shoving a hand in between your legs. He pushes the fabric of your dress and panties away carelessly and shoves two, thick fingers inside of you, without warning. It’s fast and you’re not all the way wet yet so it hurts a little, but it’s supposed to. You close your legs tight around him and grip at his forearm, letting out a surprised keening sound against his palm.

“Yeah,” he breathes against your neck. “Yeah, that’s right.”

He takes his hand away from your mouth and places one of yours there instead, telling you to keep it there. You nod shakily as he crooks his fingers inside of you, his other hand pushing your thighs apart and shoving the straps of your dress down your shoulders to squeeze your breasts.

He’s not being nice about it, that’s for sure. He pinches your nipples, painfully hard and relentless. He grips your thighs wide open in a way that’s already got you feeling bruised and aching. He bites and sucks his way down your neck, so hungry and determined, you wouldn’t be surprised if he started drawing blood. You turn your face into his neck, both your hands over your mouth now. You moan, getting lost in the scent of his musk and cologne and clean sweat. You love it. You love him. 

“You gonna be good?” He slides another finger inside you and spreads them all apart wide, the pads of his fingers rubbing against your walls. “You gonna be good for me and let me give you what you need?” 

You look up into his eyes and you nod, frantic. You keep nodding until he takes your hands away from your face and kisses you, his tongue sliding into your mouth, making wet noises echo in the silence of the bathroom.

“Please,” you say against his mouth, rocking your hips to fuck yourself desperately on his fingers. “Oh, please…” 

He hums, fingers going to your jaw. Through his trousers you can feel his hard cock against your ass and you make sure to grind back against that. “You ask so nice, baby.”

You whine pleadingly. Then his thumb moves to rub at your clit and his other hand wraps around your throat, squeezing lightly. You let out a moan so loud he has to put his mouth on yours to silence you.

“Quiet,” he says against your lips, laughing a little. “Everyone’s gonna come running in here and see you like this… gagging for it. And that’s only my fingers inside of you.”

You try to come up with a retort for that, but he’s playing dirty now — rubbing at your clit unforgivingly, pumping his three fingers in and out, hard and fast, gradually choking you harder and harder. You feel the blood rush up to your face.

“You close?” he asks. The grip on your throat moves your head and you find yourself looking at the reflection in the large mirror in front of you.

The sight you two make is filthy. You’re completely undone, dress bunched up haphazardly at your middle, while Sebastian stands behind you, fully dressed. He’s a whole head taller than you, so you look suspended against him, completely at his mercy. Your face is red, jaw slack, eyes wet. There are red marks all along the line of your neck and shoulder.  

Sebastian’s looking too, his face soft and hungry. “Watch,” he says in your ear and only gives you a second before he cuts off your air completely and thrusts his fingers all the way inside you, stroking quick and rough at your clit until you’re coming. You watch your whole body seize up and shake until your vision blurs and you’re moaning soundlessly against the pressure on your throat.

It lasts and lasts and he takes you down nice and slow. He releases his grip on your throat but he’s still absentmindedly stroking at your clit and it’s too much, your body’s shaking. 

You gasp and whimper against his neck and push at his wrist, “Seb…” 

“Sorry,” he says and pulls his fingers out slow. 

You can’t stop shaking, making little mewling noises even as he rubs at your abdomen soothingly and presses gentles kisses against your face and throat, where you know marks are already forming. 

He shushes you and brings his wet fingers to your open mouth. “Here,” he says. And you suck at them desperately, tasting yourself on his thick fingers. When you hum gratefully, eyes drifting closed, he says, “There you go, that’s it. That’s a good girl.”

You open your eyes to look up at him as he slips his fingers out from your mouth. His eyes are wide and wondering, eyelashes fluttering fast against his cheeks, lips red and wet from him biting at them. It’s devastatingly beautiful to look at.

You’re so afraid you’re going to tell him that you love him, right then and there, that you drop to your knees and yank open his trousers. 

He says your name haltingly and tries to pull you up, “You don’t have—“

He cuts himself off with a moan as you mouth at him through his briefs, gathering enough spit to make it messy, the soft cotton sliding wetly against the head of his dick.  

“Jesus,” he says, his fingers moving to push your hair out of your face. 

You push his underwear down, tucking it under his balls, then look up at him as you jack him one, twice, three times, before putting him in your mouth. You bob your head, letting yourself get the hang of it, then swallow him down completely, the head of his cock fitting tight in your throat. You focus on breathing in and out through your nose that’s pressed against the tuft of dark hair at his pelvis.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans brokenly. He sounds so thoroughly destroyed, your face heats up and your pussy throbs weakly in sympathy.

One hand makes a tight fist in your hair while the other goes to brace itself on the sink as he starts to thrust his hips, slow and careful. You grab at the back of his thighs and his ass, encouragingly, until he’s properly fucking your throat — wide-eyed, red mouth open, shocked little grunts punctuating each rough thrust.

You fondle at his balls, the pad of your finger rubbing behind his sack. Then Sebastian comes, groaning high and pretty, tugging at your hair. You moan right along with him as you feel the hot liquid slide down your throat, barely even tasting him. He’s that far down inside you.

He slips out carefully and practically hauls you up to sit on the counter. His hands go to your hair, his mouth pressing soft kisses all over your face and down your neck.

“You’re so good,” he whispers, reverent. He wipes away your fallen tears with the flat of his tongue, “You did so good, baby. So good. My good girl.”

 

—

 

When you get back to the table, dinner has already been served and gotten cold. Nobody says anything, but there are knowing looks and raised eyebrows here and there.  

You don’t care — can’t seem to manage to — because the world is moving in slow motion. There’s a low hum thrumming through your body, giving you a pleasant, heady feeling. You don’t think it’s from the wine; you’ve only had two glasses and you’re more than capable of handling your liquor. Whatever it is, you’re thankful for it. You body is loose and pliant, the ache in your body throbbing so sweetly. You could curl up on the floor of this fancy restaurant, right there by Sebastian’s feet, and stay there, happy, forever.

More than once, Sebastian has to lean in close and say, “Eat” in your ear to remind you that you have a full plate of steak au gratin before you. You look down at the abundance of it, feeling daunted, it’s too much all of a sudden. You start to panic, but Sebastian takes your hand and puts it on his lap, threading his fingers through yours. He reaches over with his fork, stabs a piece of potato from your plate and pops it in his mouth. He nods once at you with a small smile on his face. You pick up your fork. 

Around you, people are talking fast and laughing loud, but it all feels out of focus. You feel light, ready to slip and float away any second. The only thing keeping you there is the length of Sebastian’s thigh pressed against you, his warm hand around yours. The only thing that matters.

 

— 

 

You leave right after you finish dinner. Sebastian makes the excuses and says the goodbyes for the both of you. You don’t think you can manage talking right now, much less stand up, without having a part of him touching you.

He watches you quietly the whole time — in the cab, in the elevator, outside the door of his apartment. Once you get inside, he sits you down on the bed and undresses you. He inspects your body thoroughly, moving your limbs gently and tutting when he sees the lingering shapes of his fingers on your thighs and neck. Then he takes off his clothes and fucks you slow and sweet on the soft sheets, looking into your eyes the whole time.

He keeps looking at you, even after. You run your hands through his hair worriedly, “Are you okay?”

“ _Am I okay?_ ” he looks at you like you just grew another head, “Are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Jesus Christ, I did a number on you. You should’ve seen yourself at the restaurant, I thought I fucked away your ability to speak.”

That makes you laugh. You press your nose against his hair as he tucks his face in your neck. “I liked it. It was good… really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His body deflates, relieved. Then: “I can’t believe Idris Elba and Marc Jacobs know we fucked in bathroom.”

You and Sebastian laugh so hard that one of you rolls off the bed.

 

—

 

You wake up one morning in an empty bed. The sheets are still warm and the pillow still smells like Sebastian.

Belatedly you realize that the bedroom door is open. You can hear the sounds of the Fugees and Sebastian’s silly falsetto coming from the kitchen.

_I heard he sang a good song. I heard he had a style. And so I came to see him and listened for a while._

You get out of bed and and pad over to the kitchen in your underwear. Sebastian’s standing in front of the stove, doing some dorky two-step while he twirls the spatula in his hand.

_And there he was this young boy. Stranger to my eyes._

You come up behind him, singing right along with him and the rich voice emanating from the speakers. 

_Strumming my pain with his fingers. Singing my life with his words._

Sebastian turns around, his eyes bright and crinkled from smiling so wide. He drops the spatula and holds you around the waist, his other hand taking yours. You start to dance, swaying back and forth and around the kitchen as your voices grow louder and louder.

 _Killing me softly with this song, killing me softly. With this song, telling my whole life with his words. Killing me softly. With his song._  

He lets you go and twirls you. You spin once, twice, three times, then he pulls you back in and dips you, leaning down for a kiss. 

_Strumming my pain with his fingers. Singing my life with his words. Killing me softly with his song._

He keeps kissing you as he rights you back up, his hand reaching up to tangle in your hair. You slide an arm around his neck and place your other hand on the his bare chest, right over his heart. 

_Killing me softly, with his song._

The kiss is open-mouthed and possessive, you taste each other, breathing into each other’s mouths. It should be gross but it’s isn’t; you’ve never felt closer to him. He licks at the roof of your mouth and it makes you dizzy. 

 _Telling my whole life with his words._  

You can feel him smiling against your mouth and it’s contagious. You smile until you’re both laughing and singing against the cupboards.

 _Killing me softly._  

You press your foreheads together and you tell him, a secret affirmation, “I love you.”

_With his song._

Sebastian looks into your eyes, his hand at the nape of your neck, and echoes, “I love you.”

 

—

 

The thing is, what you’re doing, it’s awful. It’s really goddamn fucking awful. 

It’s only when you’re looking in the mirror, or standing in line at the deli, or waiting for someone to hit the clapperboard before a take, that you realize what you’re actually doing. 

This giant, pink elephant in the room only comes to light in these moments of idle, in which Sebastian’s presence is missing. It only makes sense. If you’re not there with him, you won’t be able to distract him from thinking about her, loving her.

Then when you start thinking like that, the overwhelming flood of shame comes and washes over you, soaking you down to your bones. And it makes your body shake, the cold realization of what a horrid, rotten human being you are for taking somebody that’s already loved by someone else.

No matter how you rationalize it, there’s no way you can justify that your love for him is anything other than purely selfish. She deserves him and he deserves her. Two good people who deserve to have each other.

You’re not sure you’ll ever forgive yourself for fucking that up.

 

—

 

You’re juggling a stack of plates, cups, and utensils when Sebastian’s phone rings. 

“You mind getting that?” Sebastian calls from the kitchen. “The timer just went off, I don’t want this to burn.”

“Sure thing, Bobby Flay,” you say, setting down the stuff on the dinner table and hearing Sebastian laugh as you wipe your hands on your jeans. For some godawful reason, you don’t have the presence of mind to check the caller ID first and you press the green call button right away.

“Hello?”

“ _Hi there,_ ” Margarita’s sweet, throaty voice says in your ear. She says your name inquiringly, “ _Is that you?_ ”

You don’t reply right away, your voice stuck in your throat. She says your name again.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Sorry. I’m just, I’m— Sebastian’s making dinner.”

She laughs, “ _Is he now? Did anything burn down yet?_ ”

“Everything’s intact, so far.”

“ _Let’s hope it stays that way for your sake, huh?_ ”

“And for everyone in the building.” You force yourself to laugh amicably. 

“ _So how are you doing? I know you guys have been going crazy with all the night shoots._ ” You look over at Sebastian but he doesn’t seem to hear, he’s too busy fiddling with something inside the oven.

“Yup, yeah. I’m good. Just, you know, two more weeks and I’ll be back in that my little mouse hole in Brooklyn.” 

“ _Oh no way, we’re just across the bridge, in Tribeca. On Franklin and Lafayette? Right by this art gallery and a little bodega. I’ll send you the address. You have to come by. Anytime, honestly_.”

Nope. No, no way in hell. “Cool, thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“ _We have to take you to this club that our friend, Don owns. And I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not another one of those sleazy clubs with equally horrendous people and music, no. It's not pretentious, either. It’s completely classy, kinda quirky, sort of a jazz age vibe. There’s a dress code and everything, plus the interior design is so lush. Not a lotta people know about it too, so…”_ She keeps talking excitedly and you remind yourself to hum in interest every once in a while.  

She talks to you like you were the reason she ever called in the first place — like she wanted to talk to _you_ , like she cares about you, like you’re her _friend_. It makes guilt twist harshly in your gut and your skin crawl with self-hatred.

“Yeah, that’s sounds awesome, I can’t wait,” you cut in politely. You readjust the phone in your sweaty palms, and in a rush, you lie, “Hey um, I think Sebastian just finished, he's free to talk.”

You don’t even wait for her to reply, you just stick the phone in front of Sebastian’s face. “Margarita.”

He grabs the phone distractedly and holds it between his ear and shoulder as he cuts up some tomatoes. “Hey babe…”

You walk away and lock yourself in the bathroom before you can hear any more.

 

—

 

“So… what’s the verdict?”

The steak isn’t that tender, but it’s juicy and the flavors burst satisfyingly in your mouth. You smile at Sebastian. “It’s good.”

The excited look on his face falls. “What? What’s wrong? Did I overcook it?”

“No,” you chuckle a little when he prods at his piece of steak to check for burn marks. “Sebastian, no. You did really good, honest. I like the mashed potatoes.”

He smiles, pleased, and starts eating.

You eat in silence for a while — or rather, watch him determinedly wolf down his plate, while you pick at yours and take occasional bites. You feel too sick inside and it has nothing at all to do with the food.

Then, when you can’t take it anymore: “We have to stop this.”

Sebastian looks up, swallowing his food. “Is it really that bad?” 

“No, no it’s not—“ you put your fork down. “We have to end it... this.”

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you and me. We have to stop it, Seb."

He flinches, dropping his utensils. He blinks fast and moves his mouth soundlessly, one of his hands clenching into a fist on the table. “Why are you saying this.”

“Because one of us has to,” you say, trying to catch his eyes. Your voice grows desperate. “What do you think’s gonna happen when we’re done here? We go back to New York together and keep doing this in secret? And then what? There’s no happy ending for us and you know it.”

He won’t meet your eyes. He crumples up his napkin and throws it on the table, “You don’t want to be with me anymore.”

You feel your heart squeeze and you force your voice to sound strong, “I don’t see how it’s going to work.”

When he finally does look at you, it’s with wounded eyes and a mean sneer. It destroys you to see that look on him, you hate yourself for putting it there. “Go on, just admit it.”

"Admit what?"

"You're sick of me." He's hurt. "You don't want—"

"No. Sebastian, that’s not what I'm— I’m trying to tell you that this isn't...”

“How can you be so ready to let me go?” his voice booms over yours all of a sudden, taking you aback. His eyes are wide in disbelief and anger, mouth twisted in distress. “Just say you don’t love me.”

“You think this is easy for me?” you raise your voice to match his, livid at the assumption. “I love you and you know that. So much, it makes me crazy."

"Then why—" His voice cracks. 

"Because I have to be the bigger person here. Since you can’t seem to be.”

He looks down, dismayed, and says in a small voice, “I don’t want to hurt either of you.”

And there’s something so innocent in that statement, that it jars something inside you, leaving you with a sorrow so deep in your bones. When you meet his eyes you say, “You already have.”

His face crumples, crestfallen, and he shakes his head fiercely, like he doesn’t want to believe it. You get up, grabbing your purse and coat on the way to the door and he follows immediately, catching your wrist. "No, c'mon, please," he turns your face in his hands, tries to get you to look at him. “Don’t do this.”

You can’t look at him. If you look at him, you know you’ll stay and never leave. So you do the only thing you can.

“Go back to her. Forget about me.”

“ _No_.”

“Then be with me. Leave her.”

“I _can’t_ ,” his voice shakes.

That’s all you needed to hear. “Goodbye, Sebastian.”

 

—

 

Principal photography wraps up Friday morning. A bittersweet mood fills the set as the director says some gracious parting words to the entire cast and crew. A few tears are shed and hugs are made all around. You make sure to avoid Sebastian’s eyes as you give him an impersonal hug and a pat on the back for show.

That night at the wrap party, you do your best to ignore the feeling of him watching you. Instead you down shot after shot of whatever Charlie puts in front of you and lose spectacularly in both rounds of quarters you play with Michael and Rosario. You drink and drink and drink, until all you can manage to focus on is trying to stay upright and walk in a straight line.  

Everybody’s drunk, but you’re utterly shitfaced — a fact that everyone becomes aware of as soon as you all stumble out of the bar and you almost eat the pavement.

Michael laughs and catches you around the waist. “Man almost down.” 

“Oh my god, okay.” Aubrey chuckles a little when she sees that you can barely stand up and kind of drooling on Michael’s shirt. “We gotta get her to a bed, like _immediately_. Where’s Sebastian? You have her keys right?”

“I’m here.” A voice from behind you says. Then a pair of strong, familiar arms wrap around you. “Yeah, I got her. You guys go on.”

“You sure? We could always provide more man power, Seb,” you hear Charlie laugh.

“Fuck off, Chuck. I got her.”

There are more loud noises and talking, then you’re being ushered into a cab, some German voices going over your head. The last thing you remember is a warm shoulder and soft knuckles running along your cheek.

 

—

 

The next thing you know you’re in a bed, a hand holding the back of your thigh as you feel your pants being pulled off of you. You squirm, wanting to get up and do it yourself but your head feels too heavy.

“Hey, easy.” Sebastian’s face fills your vision and you pull him closer by the collar. He smells so good, a little like whiskey and patchouli, but mostly something that’s so Sebastian, it makes you wanna bury yourself in his chest. His eyes are bright and focused on you. There are tiny dents on his bottom lip from where he’s been biting at it. You reach up to touch them.

“You’re so pretty…”

A quiet chuckle, “Look who’s talking.”

You pull him down a little more by his t-shirt, so you can get a taste of that cherry red mouth. A whimper comes out of you as his mouth opens against yours, overwhelmingly hot and wet and sweet. You want so much to be consumed by it, so you get a little desperate, clumsily clutching at him, your bare legs wrapping around his waist. 

He exhales against your mouth, his brow furrowing. When he moves, he rubs his thumb over your nipple and hikes your legs up higher. You feel the hard bulge of cock press against you and you gasp, wanting it so much.

“Fuck me,” you breathe. 

He lets out a frustrated groan.

“Fuck me, Sebastian,” your head lolls to the side, toward the hand on your face and you suck his fingers in your mouth. “ _Please_ , fuck me.”

He stares at you, mouth open. He stills your hips with a large hand and you feel his erection against the inside of your thigh.

“ _Please._ ”

His wet fingers trail across your cheek, “No.”

You reach out for him, “Seb—“

“I can’t.”

You reach down at his fly and he takes your hands away, “I said, _no_.” His eyes are wild, but he takes a breath, tries to calm himself, and shakes his head, “Not like this.”

Your eyes well up with tears, hurt. You try to untangle yourself from him and when he reaches out for you, you hit him. You push at his chest with both hands, cursing him, kicking him, slapping him in the face and he doesn’t try to stop you. He just takes blow after blow, trying to hold you, until your hits turn weak and you’re weeping against his chest, loud and full of sorrow. 

“I’m sorry,” he cradles you in his arms as your body wracks with sobs. He pushes away the hair that’s stuck to your wet face and presses kisses there. “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry, sweetheart.”

You stay like that, curled around each other — him whispering to you as you cry softly — until you have to fight to keep your eyes open and you fall asleep.

 

—

 

You wake up with the overwhelming need to vomit. You ignore the protests of your aching body and practically sprint to the bathroom, stubbing your toe against the coffee table on the way. Somehow you manage to make it to the toilet before you yak up all of yesterday's lunch.

The tiled floor feels cold against your knees as you violently retch over the toilet. You think you might never stop, might heave up your liver and kidneys too, from the way your body’s expelling all your insides. 

Then you feel your dirty hair being pulled back as a hand runs up and down soothingly on your back.

After what feels like eternity, it stops and you spit into the toilet. “Ugh, fuck.”

Sebastian flushes the toilet as you sit back and wipe your face with toilet paper. The sight you must make right now. Jesus.

He runs a dry hand down the side your face then gets up and walks out of the bathroom. A moment later he comes back with a glass of water and an aspirin, both of which he gives you.

You swallow the pill with a gulp of water and find Sebastian looking at you with his eyebrows raised expectantly. You squint at him, but finish the entire glass anyway, taking your sweet time as he waits and huffs in light-hearted annoyance.

“You okay?”

“I feel like someone vacuumed up all my insides and ran me over with a truck.”

He chuckles, “Sounds about right.”

He takes the glass from your hand and gets up, putting it on the counter. The he walks over to the shower and turns it on, starts taking off his clothes. “Come on. Hot shower will make it better.” 

You get on your feet, still a little wobbly, and start unbuttoning on your blouse. You fumble with it long enough that Sebastian pads over, completely nude, and undoes it for you, quick and efficient. It’s only after he’s slipped the fabric off your shoulders that he looks up at you.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, slipping off your underwear and following him into the shower. 

The glass doors have already steamed up and in here, it’s like an entirely different world. Separate from everything and everyone, but each other.

Sebastian lets you go under the water first and it’s utterly sublime — the hot water pours down onto you and loosens up your muscles, making you gasp. Then he comes up close, right in front of you, and gets himself wet. You push his hair back when it goes limp on his forehead. 

You wash yourselves and each other, your touches languid and reverent, as if you have all the time in the world.

After the the soap suds have washed away and gone down the drain, you stand there — looking up at him, him looking down at you — eyes flicking across each other’s faces, trying to memorize. That look coming from him — the one that used to make you go crazy — is now warm and familiar. You wrap it around you and let yourself soak it up, drown in it. It might be the last time you can.

You rise up on your tip toes and pull him towards you, his head landing on your shoulder. It’s a loose embrace that quickly turns into you clutching at each other, fingertips digging into slick skin, desperate and yearning.

Then Sebastian reaches behind you to turn off the water and picks you up, your legs wrapping instinctively around him. With an arm under your ass, he grabs a towel on the way out and dries you off with it inadequately before setting you down on the bed and tossing the towel to the side. 

You stretch out your damp body on the soft white sheets as he kneels over you, tongue sliding into your open mouth. You feel him grow hard as he kisses and sucks his way down your jaw and neck, down your collarbones and in between your breasts. His tongue flicks out to lick at one of your nipples, nipping at it, then finally letting himself suck, deep and bruising. 

He hums, satisfied, your fingers curling in his hair. He kisses your belly, then down, down, down, until he’s kneeling on the floor and pulling you so that your hips are hanging off the bed, legs hooked on his shoulders. 

The hot press of his mouth against your wet pussy makes your entire body shiver, one of your hands going to squeeze at your own chest. He spreads your lips with his mouth and slides his tongue in, easy as anything. When his nose bumps against your clit, you moan high and buck up your hips in shocked pleasure.

“Please,” you whisper. One of his hands slide up to tweak your nipple and you hold onto him, trying to rock your hips up his face.

He fits two fingers inside you along with his tongue, crooking them deep, making your back arch. He finally gives your clit two, small kitten licks and it makes you go crazy, crying out and grabbing at his air, trying to close your thighs around him. He squeezes your tits and reaches up to wrap his hand around your throat admonishingly.

“Oh, _oh, please_ ,” you cry. He’s got three fingers inside you now, pumping fast and crooking back and forth. He trails down to mouth at your wet folds. “ _Seb_ —”

Some of his fingers end up in your mouth and you suck them desperately, moaning, grateful to be filled. But he takes them away after a second, slips them from your mouth and pushes your thighs apart, opening you up wider. Then as he sucks at your clit, he slips his wet fingers out of you, trailing it down, past your perineum, to rub at your hole. 

It makes your body jolt, mouth falling open in a surprised moan. He rubs at you, using your juices to ease the way until your muscles give, letting him slip a finger there. You gasp at the strangeness of it, the filthy, squelching sound it makes, but he holds you still with a flat hand, rubbing circles on your stomach, calming you.

Sebastian’s sucking hard at your clit, humming, and you’re whining, fisting at the sheets to keep yourself from scratching along his back. He’s using both hands now — the four fingers of his left hand shoved inside you, and a finger on his right, sliding fast, in and out of your ass — his shoulders keeping your legs apart.

It’s too much, you’re whimpering, _crying_. “Seb, _Seb—_ oh, _please_. I can’t. I can’t _—_ ”

You can’t take it — him inside you, around you, everywhere. Your body’s shaking and you’re gonna die. You’re gonna die this way with Sebastian’s face buried between your legs and his fingers in your ass. 

Then you’re coming, so hard your vision whites out and you have sit up, curling towards him. You ride it out, mewling all the while, then collapse back on the bed, chest heaving as you stare at the ceiling, completely dizzy.

Sebastian pulls away from you gently and climbs up the bed. That smug, crooked smirk is on face, looking a hundred times more debauched now that the bottom half of his face is completely soaked with your come.

“Jesus Christ.” You get up on your elbows to kiss him, licking it away and pushing it in his mouth, making him taste it.

He kisses you back sweetly, knuckles going to rub along your cheek. And just when he’s trapped you in a false sense of security, he flips you over on your stomach, roughly pulling you up at the hips so you’re face down, ass up on the bed. Your mouth drops open soundlessly at the viciousness of it. 

He moves his knees to push your legs out wider, a hand going to cup your jaw and turning your face so you can look at him. “You want it? You want it, baby?”

You nod fast, blinking up at him.

“Say it,” Sebastian says, fingers digging into your jaw. “I wanna hear you say it.”

“I want it,” it comes out in a rush. “I want it, I need it,  _please_ …”

Then he’s sliding his thick cock inside your slick, hot cunt — your body pulling him in deep, again and again, wanting him inside where he belongs, keeping him there. 

“Fuck,” he moans, holding onto your hip, forehead sticking to the back of your neck. “Jesus, you feel so good. So good. Sweetheart…”

His mouth slides down your jaw until he’s gasping onto your mouth, his hips pistoning hard and fast, sounding wet and filthy in the quiet room. All of a sudden he pulls out and you whine, feeling bereft, but then he’s manhandling you to your back and sliding back inside, coming back, coming home. 

He pushes at the back of your knees, one of them going on his shoulder and the other around his waist. His hips are moving without rhythm, just purely instinctual, as he sobs and moans your name again and again. He bites at your neck and you pull his hair. His fingers leave bruises on your hips and you clutch at his ass, pulling him impossibly closer, deeper. This is how you fuck — desperate, mean, possessive. It’d be foolish to think that your last time would be anything otherwise.

He’s fucking into you too brutally for it to look anything like making love, but you know it is anyway. You feel it, you see it his eyes, hear it in the noises he makes. His hand goes around your throat again, right where it belongs and his voice shakes but he looks straight into your eyes when he says, “Tell me your mine.”

You clutch at his shoulders, head tipped back, moaning. He has to say it again, “ _Tell me_.” 

“I’m yours,” you choke. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.”

He comes once he hears you say it, forehead pressed against yours, face scrunched up so beautifully. He comes so hard inside you, you feel his hot release fill you up so full that it comes back out a little, leaking out of you and trickling down your thighs.

Sebastian presses his face against your cheek, breath heaving sobs. Both your faces are wet.

He tries to pull out of you, but you wrap yourself around him tight, stopping him. “Stay.”

And he does. For as long as he can.

  

—

 

So there was this boy — this sweet, crazy, beautiful boy — who smiled like the sun and looked at you like you were someone worth seeing. You knew he loved someone else, but that didn’t stop you from loving him, or him loving you back. You made the silly mistake of making that love too important, even though you knew, all along, that he was always going to leave you. 

But now that the time has come, you try anyway — with all your might you pray _I wish I wish I wish_ and _if only if only if only,_ but these litanies are fruitless and childish, like asking to hold the sun in your hands and keep it to yourself forever. 

Because this is what love does: it makes you want to rewrite the world. The person you love is in front of you, and you want to do everything in your power to make it possible, endlessly possible. When it’s just the two of you, you can pretend that this is how it is, this is how it will be, forever. 

 

 

—

 

“See you in New York?”

You will. If not in that city, then the next. This won’t be the last time you’ll see him, but you know that it won’t ever be like it was before.

You nod and wipe away some tears before they fall, laughing through it. “This is so cliché.”

A touch of amusement lights up his eyes. “What?”

“We’re currently fulfilling a rom-com trope,” you gesture around you. “You know, an airport scene.”

“Except we’re doing it all wrong. You’re supposed to be running after me while the music swells and security tries to stop you. And in the nick of time, right when I’m about to board the plane, you’d say my name and I’d turn around, shocked. Then you’d proceed to confess your undying love for me and we’d kiss and live happily ever after and then the end credits would roll.” He smiles, contrite. “Yet here we are.”

“Hey, at least we had time to get Starbucks.”

He chuckles but his smile fades quickly and when he blinks a tear falls from his shining eyes.

“Seb—“

“Don’t. Don’t say it.” He shakes his head resolutely and bites at his lip, scared as hell. “I know it, I do. Just— just don’t talk like it’s the last time.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” He lets out a shaky breath.

A lady’s voice over the PA announces that the flight to JFK will be boarding in five minutes, but if either of you hear it, you don’t show it. Instead you just keep looking at each other, until you can’t stand it anymore and you step forward, going on your tip toes to wrap your arms tight around his neck.

Sebastian doesn’t move, his body rigid. You wait until he goes pliant — like a puppet with its strings cut loose — winding his arm tight around you, a hand cradling the back of your head. You pull each other closer and closer until you can’t tell when your body ends and his begins. He pulls you so close it hurts, just like it’s supposed to. His voice shakes in your ear, but you nod anyway — both your bodies trembling with the finality of it.

_Einschiffung Flug 8023 nach JFK. Boarding Flight 8023 to JFK._

Sebastian sobs against your neck, clutching at you. He stays there for such a long second it makes your chest fills dumbly with hope. But then he rips himself away from you so quickly that you stagger forward. He walks away from you without looking back.

You don’t run after him. You don’t say his name nor do you profess your undying love for him. There'd no swelling music and certainly no happy ever after. 

Instead you stand alone in the middle of a busy airport, dazed and reeling from the bereft feeling inside you. Your soft, gooey heart has been carved out from your chest and stolen from you. Sebastian has taken it with him. 

You’d do it all again if you could. All of it. All the tears and heartache and love and anger — you’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Beginning with the first time you saw him until the very moment he leaves you. 

You’d do it all again, without hesitation, just to know — just to _feel_ , even for a moment, what it was like to have him. 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This is what love does: It makes you want to rewrite the world... The person you love sits across from you, and you want to do everything in your power to make it possible, endlessly possible. And when it’s just the two of you, alone in a room, you can pretend that this is how it is, this is how it will be._ — David Levithan


End file.
